


As Above, So Below

by thedevilchicken



Category: Original Work
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Forced to have sex with a third party, High Fantasy, Imprisonment, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Politics, Public Sex, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Slavery, Spoils of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Many years ago, the leaders of Kyr and Kault signed a treaty to keep the peace in the peninsulae; their successors, however, did not honour it.Istvan, the Giant of Kault, invades Kyr with all his forces and takes the king as his prize. Ettian, the newly deposed king, slowly begins to understand precisely why the treaty was broken in the first place.





	As Above, So Below

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sombregods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/gifts).



The fact is, Istvan of Kault didn't get to rule the Senikaultani peninsulae by being a benevolent ruler. 

He didn't get where he is because he strikes fair bargains, develops beneficial bilateral trade agreements, or is any kind of persuasive politician in general. He's not charming. He's not charismatic, at least not the way that most people would define the term. He's not even particularly nice most of the time; he's a warlord, after all, and Ettian finds most of them aren't. He's met a few over the years. 

The fact is, Istvan of Kault conquered the clans of the Senikaultani. He took them by force rather than by politics and added their considerable power to his own. And then, he came for Kyr. 

\---

When Ettian was in his nineteenth year, the chieftains of the Senikaultani clans came north to the Kyrran capital. His uncle, Erran, twenty-seventh sovereign of Kyr from the unbroken line of kings and queens, had invited them there for peace talks. Because the king was not permitted to leave Kyr, and because the clans were desperate even if unwilling to use the word, all five chieftains came.

He remembers the Kaultani delegation more clearly than any of the others, because among them was the chief's remarkable bastard son. Imaginatively, most men just called him the Bastard of Kault, but Ettian knew his name was Istvan. Everyone knew his name, just like they knew his reputation.

They said his father, Tarvan, had lain with a great eastern giantess and what had come of that was Istvan. It was easy to see why they said it: when he walked into the room, Ettian saw he stood a full head higher than the next tallest of the delegates, and none of the clansmen were small men to begin with. He was broader, too, and his muscles thicker, and both his unruly beard and the long hair that he wore braided down to his waist was the old giants' golden blonde in place of the usual Kaultani ruddy brown. Of course, no one had seen a giant in the world for a thousand years by then, or quite possibly more, though their bones turned up in the markets every now and then. The far simpler explanation was that Tarvan had found a pretty blonde girl that he'd liked the look of while on one of the his numerous raiding voyages south of the peninsulae. The Bastard of Kault probably wasn't part giant. Probably. Even if he was seven feet tall to Ettian's not-quite-six.

At the negotiations, Istvan didn't speak a word. Ettian, seated at his uncle's side as always, was really just expected to watch and learn in silence, so on the first day he watched and he learned - he learned that Tarvan had six other sons, legitimate ones, all older than Istvan, but they were nothing like as imposing and dramatically more inclined to petty squabbles. He learned that although Istvan was famed for his prowess in battle rather than his intellect, although he appeared disengaged from the proceedings, and although he was likely only there in case the situation called for violence or physical intimidation, he was listening intently. The other brothers weren't, that much was obvious. 

Ettian watched him. He has to admit he was intrigued even that first day, and the second day, as it slowly became clear that the Bastard of Kault both was and wasn't what he seemed. He was huge, yes, sitting there in the row behind his brothers who were in turn behind their father, so big that the seat he was sitting on seemed woefully inadequate for the task. He was intimidating, yes, due in part to the sheer impressive bulk of corded muscle over bone that constituted him, near the prime of his life at twenty-six years old, but also his reputation preceded him - Ettian had heard tales of all the battles won by bloody blows of his warhammer. But the warhammer was safely locked away with all the other delegates' weapons, as a hotly contested but ultimately accepted condition of entry to the Kyrran palace, and honestly what intrigued Ettian most of all was the attention he paid. He wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Tarvan's great giantspawn bastard understood more of what was happening in that room than almost anyone else there did. 

So, Ettian watched him. He'd like to think he was subtle about it but he knows he can't have been because on the third day, he was discovered. After a brief intermission, during which food was brought in on huge silver trays and laid out on the tables and the delegates stood to stretch their legs as they ate, Istvan settled back down in his seat. When Ettian looked at him, he looked straight back. Istvan caught him watching. It was utterly obvious.

Ettian knew the delegates had all been briefed on the proper protocols both before and after their arrival, because that had formed part of the agreement; they had all read the papers detailing correct forms of address and other points of etiquette, for Kyr and the five clans of the five peninsulae, so he knew they knew they weren't to look either him or the king directly in the eye. However, it seemed Istvan didn't care very much for protocols. He didn't look away. He held Ettian's gaze, steady and unflinching, over his eldest brother's shoulder and their father's shoulder in front of that. He held his gaze as the chieftains discussed peace between the clans of the peninsulae and peace between the peninsulae and Kyr. Istvan held his gaze, though it went against the most fundamental Kyrran law. Not even the high priests of the moon were permitted to do what the Kaultani chief's bastard son was doing then. 

In the end, with his cheeks turning hot and his nails jabbing hard against his palms, Ettian was the one who looked away. He honestly couldn't recall the last time anyone had looked him in the eye - it must have been years, he thought, at least ten years or more, because the Kyrran averted their eyes so studiously in his presence. It was disconcerting, and intriguing, and a number of other things that Ettian couldn't quite identify. And he told himself he wouldn't look again but when they reconvened the following day, he looked again. Istvan caught him again. And, on and off throughout that day, they glanced at each other across the lamplit room. When he went to sleep that night, he could almost still see Istvan's storm-grey eyes when he blew out the lamp, still watching him.

On the fourth day, they took a hard-earned break from the ongoing discussions. The majority of the clan delegates either stayed in their firelit quarters to keep themselves warm or bathed in the complex of hot baths carved into the rock beneath the palace, though Ettian heard a few of the more intrepid ones tended their horses in the stables or trained outside in the palace courtyards. It was winter and Ettian knew that the timing was strategic on his uncle's part; the clans were used to the longer days and warmer weather south of the mountains, not the chilly grey skies of Kyr. They usually wear short tunics in the south, sleeveless and belted at the waist, with sandals instead of boots because of the heat in the air every day of the year - it was really no wonder that the delegates looked so uncomfortable in their long trousers and long-sleeved shirts and thick wool cloaks or furs. But when he left his rooms in his tall tower and went down the winding staircase, he spotted Istvan. He was sitting in an alcove with his feet up, making the spacious seat look small. 

Ettian carried on, though he could almost feel Istvan's gaze on him just like he had during the previous days' negotiations. When he opened the library door, he glanced back and Istvan was watching, and when he went inside, he heard footsteps in the corridor, boots against the flagstones. His pulse quickened despite himself, though he tried to look busy choosing a book from the numerous shelves at the far side of the room. He heard the door open and close. And when he turned, book in hand, Istvan had pulled himself up onto the long table by the wall inside the door, sitting there with his long legs dangling. 

"Can you read?" Ettian asked, abruptly. 

Istvan snorted. "Of course I can fucking read, Kyrran," he replied. "I'm from Kault. I'm not Iseni." 

"Then you could read the instructions we sent. You know you're not meant to look me in the eye. It was the first point."

Istvan shrugged. He swung his legs, which somehow made him seem only marginally less imposing. "I know," he said. "I'm not an idiot. I'm from Kault, not Senika." 

"So you're just wilfully ignorant?"

Istvan coughed, a lot like he was covering up laughter, then he looked at him again. "I'm from Kault, not Kanta," he said. "I just think your rule is typical Kyrran bullshit." He raised his brows. He was _still_ looking at him, steady and intent though faintly amused. "Do you want me to stop?"

Ettian took a slow, deep breath and turned away from him again, his traditional long white robe sweeping against the library's stone floor as he opened the book - he'd never worn anything else in his whole life except those robes, so the motion that caught Istvan's eye seemed completely natural to him. And he thought about the way that Istvan looked at him; for so many years the only eyes he'd looked into were his own ice-blue ones in the mirror, and the effect this had was entirely different.

"No, I don't especially want you to stop," he admitted. "I just wanted to know if you knew the rule and chose to ignore it, or if you didn't bother to find out the rules in the first place." 

He heard him move. He heard his footsteps coming closer, bootheels against the library's stone floor. Istvan stepped close, leaned up against him and caught Ettian's long black hair between his broad chest and Ettian's own back. Then he reached his arms around him; he rested his huge, chilly hands over the top of Ettian's warm ones as he held the book. He could see the first few black lines tattooed there over the insides of each of Istvan's wrists, the Kaultani killing marks he'd read about but never seen for himself before, one for each verified death by his hands. He counted nine before the long sleeves he was wearing covered any more there might have been. The didn't doubt there were more.

"I've read that," Istvan said, and Ettian shivered as his voice tickled his ear. "Good if you can't sleep at night." 

"Maybe I like it." 

"You don't." 

"So tell me, what _do_ I like?"

Istvan probably should have stepped back. Ettian probably should have stepped away. But they stayed there just like that for a long moment with the question caught between them a little like Ettian's waist-length hair was, keeping him from moving his head. Ettian felt the rise and fall of Istvan's chest against his back as he breathed. He felt Istvan's big, cool hands against his much smaller, warmer ones. The books said the giants had evolved that way, almost like lizards, to live in the hot places where others couldn't go. The books said the kings and queens of Kyr had always been that way, on the other hand - hot-blooded, for the long Kyrran nights. Then Istvan dropped his hands to Ettian's hips and gave them a slow, firm squeeze. He hadn't said a word, but Ettian couldn't help but feel his reply had still be horrifyingly eloquent.

"You're not meant to touch me, either," Ettian said. His voice sounded tight, like his chest felt tight. 

"I know that, too," Istvan replied, lowly, almost right at his ear. They were pressed so close together that Ettian could feel his voice as he spoke almost as much as he could hear it. He hadn't been touched by anyone in years, since he'd been dextrous enough to wash and dry and dress himself. People in the palace were so careful of that - they maintained a purposeful distance, so they couldn't even brush against him accidentally. No one had even combed his hair for him since he was five years old and the suddenness and unexpectedness of it, after all that time, was almost overwhelming. 

Istvan lingered there another moment before he turned and walked away across the room, to the door and then through it. Ettian dropped the book as the door shut behind him. 

Until that moment, he hadn't realised his hands had been shaking. He wondered if Istvan had.

\---

Each morning after that, before negotiations resumed each afternoon, Ettian found Istvan in the alcove by the door at the foot of his staircase. Each morning, Istvan followed him into the library and he sat on the table and swung his long legs and he watched him while he read. He didn't speak, but Ettian could feel his gaze. He tried very hard to ignore it.

"Why are you pretending to ignore the negotiations?" Ettian asked, on the third day. He glanced up from his book that was lying open on the table where he sat and looked across the room. 

Istvan stopped swinging his legs. He untucked his hands from underneath his thighs and he folded his fingers together over his thick leather trousers and he frowned at him faintly, as if considering both the intent of the question and his answer to it. He likely was, Ettian thought, and quite carefully, weighing what he believed Ettian knew against what he should risk telling him.

"I'm a chieftain's bastard, Kyrran," Istvan said, in the end. "I have six legitimate half-brothers in line before me. What possible good could being the _clever_ one do me?"

Ettian nodded and turned back to his book. "Better they see you as their weapon instead of their rival, I imagine," he said, and Istvan chuckled lowly. He swung his legs again, his knee-high boots occasionally clipping the table leg. Ettian found it distracting, but not unpleasantly so. He hadn't expected such an honest answer. 

"They say your mother was a giantess," he said to him the next day. 

"They do," Istvan agreed. When Ettian looked up, he was toying with the ends of his long, thick braid - almost as thick as Ettian's wrist was - with his scarred, calloused fingers, watching him. 

"Was she?" he asked. 

"She was a slave my father bought from Marcelen before your fucking uncle shut the market," he replied, straightforwardly, conversationally. "Seller claimed she was part giant but who knows? Tarvan says she didn't even know herself." 

"So she's dead?"

"Yes." 

"Did he kill her?"

"Who, Tarvan?" Ettian inclined his head. "He says not. He says it was blood fever." 

"Do you believe him?"

"He's got no reason to lie." He dropped his braid and leaned forward, elbows against his knees. Then he seemed to quickly change his mind and stood, meandering across the room, so Ettian turned back to his book. "Besides, what would it change if I thought he'd done it?"

"You might kill him." 

"I might anyway. Anyone might, for any reason." Ettian heard his footsteps coming closer. He felt him lean against the high back of his chair, then felt his cold fingertips against the warm skin of his neck, trailing down over his throat to the collar of his robe, then underneath it. Istvan spread his big hand over Ettian's sternum. The touch was light but his breath still caught. "You read the briefing, Kyrran. You know how things are in Kault." 

Ettian nodded. The motion made Istvan's fingers shift against his skin, and made him shiver. When Istvan moved away again, Ettian could almost still feel him there, like an icy brand. 

Each morning after that, they met in the library. Ettian read while Istvan swung his legs or took a book and read himself, or stood behind Ettian's chair with his hands resting on his shoulders and read what he was reading, too. 

Sometimes they met there early and they talked for hours before the day's real talking began again, or at least Ettian talked and Istvan mostly listened, making the occasional comment here and there. They talked about the treaty Ettian's uncle wanted the chieftains to sign, which was designed to deliver their peoples from war throughout the region, though peace seemed almost impossible to both of them. They talked about the geography of their region that fed into the wars, how the peninsulae were situated so very close together but still remained so separate, how each had their own almost unique resources missing from the others - it was such a perfect storm of geography and history and culture that one clan couldn't help but want to conquer the rest. And all of them felt Kyr's cold eyes on them, watching over the mountains from the north. 

They talked about their countries' histories, and their religions, about the cold moon of the Kyrran and the blazing sun of the Kaultani, their gods who were locked in perpetual war for the sky. They'd both been raised to be believers, in their way, and Ettian had heard tales from the far north, where the sun ruled half the year and the moon the other half; he read the story aloud from a book he had there in the library, though Istvan said he'd heard it, too. Sometimes the Kaultani ships sailed off course, he said, and made landfall on strange islands where the sun never set or the moon hung in the sky for a weeks-long night. He hadn't seen it himself, he said, because Kyr was the farthest from home he'd ever been. Ettian had never left Kyr. Ettian had never even left the palace. That was just the way things were for bastard sons of Senikaultani chieftains and nephews of divinely appointed kings. 

They agreed on so many things. Ettian thought it was a shame they weren't the ones in charge, all things considered; he said so, and Istvan looked amused, but he didn't say he disagreed. 

On the ninth day, Istvan read aloud from Ettian's book, his tone low and the words quiet by his ear, making him shiver. On the tenth day, he tugged up the sleeves of Ettian's robe to the middle of his forearms, like he was expecting to see neat tattooed lines just like the Kaultani had, except his skin was just as pale there as it was everywhere else. On the eleventh day, he swept Ettian's long black hair back from his neck and rubbed the nape of it with the pad of his thumb. He ran his hand around and rested it lightly over his bare throat. He ran it down over his chest, over his abdomen, right down between his thighs. Ettian stood abruptly and walked away, his cheeks blazing. He left his book where it was on the table and he left the room and he left Istvan there in it, because he honestly wasn't sure what else to do. But that didn't mean he didn't go back the next day anyway. 

Negotiations continued, until the clans struck a deal - with each other and with Kyr. They signed the agreement and over the next few days they started to leave, to ride south through the narrow mountain passes or board their ships in the harbour and sail home instead. The morning Istvan wasn't lurking in the alcove, Ettian honestly thought he'd already left. He hadn't expected him to say goodbye, not really, because they weren't exactly friends - they were the Bastard of Kault and the Crown Prince of Kyr, and he told himself all that Istvan was to him was the only man who'd ever broken the rules in his presence. But that didn't mean he wasn't disappointed. 

Except then there he was in the alcove when Ettian left the library. He stood and he walked straight past him, his shoulder nudging on the way, into the room Ettian had just left. Disconcerted, he followed him back in. 

"I'm leaving," Istvan said. 

"I expected you would." 

"I want to have you before I go, Kyrran. Just once." He smiled wolfishly. "Maybe twice if we're quick." 

"I..." Ettian took a step back and found himself pressed up against the edge of the table where he usually read. Istvan followed. He pinned him there with his own body, his big hands pressed to the tabletop, and Ettian felt his cheeks flush hotly. He felt that same hot flush somewhere much lower, too, as he felt Istvan's clothed erection press against his hip.

"I can't," he said. "I really can't. 

"Why not?"

"I'll be king one day." 

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Well, you read the briefing. The King of Kyr is consecrated to the moon." 

"That means fuck all to me." 

"We pledge ourselves to the god of the moon. We have to be physically pure or the high priests won't confirm our coronation." 

"So you're saying you're a virgin?"

"Yes." 

"And you have to stay like that forever?"

"If I want to be king, yes." 

Istvan laughed. The sound was rich and slightly rough around the edges and Ettian had never heard anything quite like it in his life. The Kyrran were always so unfailingly, unerringly polite and deferential, at least toward him and his uncle, that he'd only really heard laughter echo in the corridors. This was so close, and so very warm.

"Fuck, Kyrran," Istvan said, taking his head in his hands, his palms cupping his jaw. "No wonder you're so uptight." 

He rested his forehead down against Ettian's. He took a breath. "Too bad," he said, then he quickly stepped away. Ettian found himself wishing he hadn't. 

He expected him to leave, but that wasn't what happened. Istvan turned to him once he was back by his usual table and in a few sharp, frustrated motions he stripped off his long-sleeved shirt and unbuckled his belt and pushed his scuffed leather trousers down around his thighs. He leaned back against the edge of the table and he wrapped one hand around his cock, which was already jutting up hard between his thighs. Ettian's eyes went wide as he looked at him. He saw the long lines of tattoos that marched up the insides of his forearms and into the crooks of his arms, at least forty of them, maybe more. He saw the gold hair at his chest that turned darker the lower down it led; he saw his thick, hard cock flushed pink with arousal, just like Ettian knew his own cheeks were, just like Ettian knew his own cock was. He knew he should have been appalled but he wasn't, he _wasn't_ \- he just stood there and watched as Istvan stroked himself, nipping the foreskin tight over the tip then pulling it back, exposing the thick head. He'd never seen another man naked, let alone another man hard.

Maybe the kings of Kyr are meant to be pure, but that doesn't mean they're uneducated or exceptionally naive - Ettian knew what some men did together, though officially men don't lie with men in Kyr, or at least they're careful not publicise the fact if they do. It took remarkably little effort on his part to imagine exactly what Istvan wanted from him, and what he was thinking about as he looked at him. He could imagine taking off his robe, or else Istvan tearing it till it fell away in frayed sections. He could imagine removing the silk shift from underneath it, and the intricately folded loincloth from underneath that, or else Istvan pulling them from him roughly. He could imagine baring himself completely in front of this giant of a man, and how Istvan would look at him, and how his cold hands would feel on his warm skin and how he'd bend him down face first over the library table with one big hand firm between his shoulder blades. He could imagine the tip of Istvan's cock pressing up against his hole. He could imagine him taking him, hard and jarring, making the heavy wooden table scrape against the centuries-old floor. He'd probably bruise him, at his hips or his thighs or maybe both. He'd wear those bruises underneath his moon-white robes for weeks until they faded, like a kind of private trophy, while the man who put them there sailed south. 

But all Ettian did was watch, and Istvan watched him watching. He watched the muscles in Istvan's jaw clench tight and watched him grip the base of his balls with one hand while he stroked himself slowly with the other, base to tip. At nineteen years old, Ettian wasn't a small man himself - he was taller than his uncle, taller than most of their servants and official visitors, long-limbed and leanly muscular underneath his robes, but Istvan with his tanlines from the Kaultani sun, his chest and his abdomen sculpted almost like the palace statues, was something very different. 

Then Istvan moved, and he came closer. He shoved his trousers lower, to his calves and he dropped down to his knees there on the floor in front of him, thighs spread out wide. He was looking up at Ettian's flushed and very nearly stricken face as he stroked himself with one hand and the fingers of the other disappeared behind his balls to press tight to his perineum. He didn't hesitate for a second, didn't look embarrassed or self-conscious in the slightest, didn't look away from Ettian's wide eyes even as he groaned and came in bursts over his own rough hand. His come spattered thickly against the flagstones and against the hem of Ettian's robe. Then he pulled himself back up and he stood there, close, so fucking close, his spent cock almost grazing Ettian's robe as it started to soften. His hands skimmed up close to Ettian's arms but he didn't quite touch. They skimmed his collarbones, still almost but not quite touching. He leaned in. 

Ettian clenched his fists at his sides. He expected a kiss, a rough press of Istvan's mouth to his just to say goodbye, one final liberty, but he didn't take it. Istvan just smiled wryly and stepped away to redress himself. Then he took one more long look before he spoke for one last time, and then he left. 

The next day, he was gone. The Bastard of Kault didn't return to Kyr for thirteen years. 

\---

Last night, an assassin came to the king's chambers. 

Of course, Ettian is no longer King of Kyr, and he can never be their king again thanks to all that's happened, but the assassin didn't come for him. He came for Istvan, and he's not the first who's tried. Ettian suspects that he won't be the last, but he might just have come the closest of them all. 

Last night, an assassin came to the king's chambers. He was quite clearly Kyrran and Ettian wouldn't be surprised if the old high council sent him, from their unknown hideaway in exile, even though he's told them more than once that they shouldn't interfere. There are so many ways they could make the situation worse for all concerned with their blunt attempts to take the country back. But he's not their king now, so why would they listen?

Within a year of the treaty, news reached Kyr that Tarvan and his six sons were dead, and his bastard Istvan had filled the void they'd left. By all accounts, what had happened was bloody, but on other parts those accounts differed; some said it was a rival house that hadn't quite managed to kill all the heirs in their attempt to seize control of Kault. Some said it was Tarvan himself who did it, possessed by the blood fever that had killed his bastard's mother, and when he'd realised exactly what he'd done, he'd killed himself. Ettian didn't doubt the one responsible was Istvan, however, and all he'd done was put them all to the sword, no witchcraft, no blood fever, no tedious clan dispute, no complex machinations. The Kyrran messengers who brought the news tended to forget the clans valued strength of leadership, and that leadership expressed itself in quite a different way to their own; Ettian imagined he'd just woken one day and challenged them, one by one, and that one by one he'd killed them. Honestly, the only question he had was which weapon he'd used, a blade or his huge hammer. 

Within a year of the treaty, Istvan was chieftain of Kault. Within that same year, Ettian's uncle died and he was crowned king of Kyr. The treaty didn't last. 

When Istvan returned to Kyr, Ettian had been king for thirteen years. He'd been groomed for the kingship since birth, as all firstborn children of secondborn children are within the royal line; his uncle was a firstborn and his father was a second, and Ettian is a firstborn while his sister Elani is a second; Elani's firstborn would take the throne after Ettian and her secondborn would continue the line. So it has been since the start. 

He'd watched the wars in the peninsulae with ever growing interest and concern, but he hadn't had the troops to commit to crossing the high mountains to quell the conflict. By the time the Kyrran army's travels to the west had drawn to a close, the Kaultani had taken four of the five Senikaultani peninsulae, stretching into the sea like long, crooked fingers. By the time the Kyrran army was ready for another war, all of the peninsulae were firmly under Kaultani control. And then the clans came, with Istvan at their head. No one called him the Bastard of Kault anymore; they called him the Giant.

Thirteen years ago, the Kaultani overran the Kyrran forces in the southern foothills and on the southern shores before any true defence could be mounted against them. They razed three cities and the villages between them, swifter and more coordinated and much better equipped than any of the Kyrran had expected of such a band of rabble clansmen. It wasn't even much of a war, just three months of fighting that didn't even reach to near the capital, but in the end the only thing that Ettian could do was concede defeat before they burned the kingdom to the ground, piece by piece. So the Kaultani army marched into the city, marched up to the palace, and the Kyrran lay down their arms. 

They met in the throne room of the palace where they'd first met all those years ago, when the delegations had been presented to the king. They spoke briefly. Ettian agreed to the terms, and to all those terms entailed. 

He remembers Istvan's hand at the back of his neck as he marched him out of the heavy wooden palace doors and down the broad white steps to the wide plateau situated halfway down them. He had never left the palace before that, as no king had in centuries, but he knew that twice a year the high council gathered there to make addresses to the Kyrran people, high enough that they could be seen above the crowd. 

There were people gathered there at the foot of the steps, Kyrran nobility and palace staff, Kaultani soldiers and all three members of the high council of Kyr. He remembers looking up into the grey sky overhead for the very first time, his eyes stinging from the light, as Istvan tore his robe with his strong hands and stripped him naked. He remembers looking down at the moon-white marble of the plateau as Istvan pushed him down onto his hands and knees in front of everyone gathered there. He could feel the cold breeze on his skin - he'd never really felt a breeze before, he thought, not unless you could count draughts inside the palace, and he didn't really think you could. He could hear the crowd, though they were all hushed - he'd never been so close to so many people in his life before, but their shoes scuffed the ground and someone coughed, someone whispered, elbows jostled. He'd never left the palace before that, because tradition said he shouldn't; even when the kings and queens died, their bodies didn't leave, they were just taken down into the crypt where all the old sovereigns' bones were, from the first right to his uncle. Ettian had expected to lie there with them one day in the future, but now he wasn't even sure of that. He wasn't sure of anything except what Istvan planned to do.

When Istvan parted his cheeks and spat against his hole for everyone to see, Ettian closed his eyes, his face burning with shame. When Istvan nudged himself into position and then shoved his cock inside him, only sharp thrust straight to the hilt, he squeezed his eyes shut tighter. It hurt, as he'd known it would, and he fought the reflex to tremble from it - he knew that if he'd let Istvan have him all those years before, bent over the library table, he'd have taken his time to work inside him, but there was no time now. The beginning of snow was in the air and Istvan could not show him any kind of mercy. By all accounts, he was not a merciful man. And this wasn't sex, not really, or so Ettian told himself, it was just dethronement. It was quite clever, actually; in one move, he'd deposed a king and discredited his council.

He came inside him, quickly, with a thick groan and a thrust of his hips, then he pulled back out and told the council to take their turn. It was so no one there could be left in any doubt: their king was no longer pure, not pure at all, he'd been fucked by four men right there on the palace steps, and so he couldn't be their king. As the three councillors had him, one by one, the crowd below hushed and appalled, Ettian watched Istvan even though the light hurt his eyes. He was watching in return from where he sat on his discarded fur cloak on the marble steps, his trousers still pulled down around his thighs, apparently unconcerned by the fact he was on display to all the people gathered there. His steady gaze was on him, just like all those years before. He hated that his own cock gave a twitch of interest when he saw that his did. When his hole twitched, too, he felt the councillor inside him jerk and come from it in hot, unsettling pulses. His head swam. He felt sick. The light outside the palace still seemed almost blinding. 

And after, once all three councillors had had him, when their come was dripping thickly from his aching hole, down over his perineum, down over his balls and from there onto the marble, Istvan returned. He pushed inside him, so much bigger than the others, and the friction of it made Ettian shiver deeply. Istvan pulled Ettian's long hair to arch his back and pull him back flush against him, and abruptly, Ettian came. Everyone saw it. The Giant of Kault had fucked him and he'd liked it. He'd liked it so much he hadn't even had to touch his cock. It wouldn't be long until every last man in Kyr knew it. 

When Istvan was done, spent again inside him, he lifted him up and he took him away, leaving his torn clothes right where they were. Istvan carried him inside, tossed over one of his broad shoulders as if he weighed very close to nothing at all, and Ettian wondered through his aching, trembling haze what exactly was next. His eyes ached from the light and his knees ached from the marble and his hole ached from... _everything else_ , his muscles trembled and he really didn't seem to have control of any of his more useful faculties; even if he'd wanted to, he was too drained at that moment to struggle at all, but struggle wasn't part of their agreement and so he hung there limply as Istvan strode through the palace. 

He almost expected a cell, or at least a room that could act as one if he was very lucky, but the cage didn't come. Istvan walked him down the long, familiar staircase to the baths that lay beneath the palace. He set him down just long enough to strip off his own clothes then stepped them both down, alone, into a small, hot bath. He took a cloth and he washed Ettian, slowly, carefully, holding him against his chest, though Ettian almost hoped they'd both sink in and drown. Then Istvan dried him just as carefully, then he dried himself, and he carried him naked to the king's chambers high up in the tower above. Ettian's weight and the numerous steps didn't seem to slow him in the slightest. The Kaultani soldiers standing guard didn't even seem to notice. Then he lay him down face-first on the bed, knelt next to him and, wordlessly, spread an odd-smelling kind of herbal ointment over the bruised rim of his hole. He pushed one slicked finger into him to spread it there, too, inside him. 

"I have a name, you know," Ettian murmured, not sure he'd meant to speak at all. "It's not _Kyrran_."

Istvan leaned down low beside his ear. "I know," he said. "That's why you're still alive." And then, he let him sleep. He hadn't realised just how much he'd need it.

Ettian remembers waking the following day to the dull ache in his limbs and a memory of things he'd have rather forgotten. He remembers seeing Istvan across the room, naked in front of a table he must have moved before Ettian certainly hadn't put it there, washing himself with a cloth over a bowl of steaming water. In the lamplight, he could see him clearly, not like the bright, distorted blur out on the steps. The killing marks, those thin black tattoos, now ran up the insides of both arms and around up to his shoulders. They split then, one row forward over his collarbones and the other back across his shoulder blades before the beginning of a new row picked up at the base of his neck to start an as yet incomplete path down his spine. Ettian counted more than a hundred, maybe two or three, maybe even more than that. He was almost surprised he wasn't stained rusty red with the blood of all the men he'd killed, but aside from the tattoos he looked almost the same as he had all those years before. He was still tall and solid with the same bulk of muscle or perhaps a fraction more, the same braid of coarse blonde hair hanging to his waist, though Ettian could see a little silver in it. He'd never married and he'd never fathered children. Ettian wondered if he'd left anyone alive who would miss him. 

His back was turned. Ettian knew there was a knife in the drawer by the bed, assuming Istvan hadn't taken the time to remove it. Perhaps he could have made it across the room and put that knife in Istvan's broad bare back or drawn it across his throat before he could realise what was happening, but he didn't leave the bed. He just lay back down and watched Istvan wash, long strands of his still familiar blonde hair sticking to his damp, scarred skin.

It wasn't because of the risk of it, because of the ache still in his body that might have slowed him down or from any kind of fear for his own life; it was because of the agreement they'd made. Perhaps he would never be king again and perhaps no one would ever see this thing he'd done for Kyr, but it was an agreement he would honour to the letter. After all, there could be no king without a kingdom.

\---

In the days that followed, Ettian still half expected a cage, but the cage didn't come. 

What came instead was blushing fiercely into the pillows of what had until very recently been his own bed, in his windowless room at the top of his windowless tower, while his nation's conqueror attended to his injured hole with that strange though apparently effective ointment. He prayed to his god each time that his cock wouldn't stiffen in response; each time, his cock stiffened, so he could only conclude his god had forsaken him. He'd never believed the priests were right before, that purity of body was necessary for the god to bless him with his power, though he'd followed traditions anyway. He supposed either they were right after all, or else this was precisely what his god wanted for him. 

Ettian stayed in that room at the top of the tower, though he hadn't been told to and he knew the door wasn't locked. Istvan had made a point of leaving it ajar when he'd left that first morning, once he'd moved away from the bed and wiped the ointment off his fingers. But Ettian stayed there, his cheeks hot, hiding his shameful erection against the mattress. It was difficult to see what else he could do, or where else he would go.

Istvan returned there in the early afternoon and dipped his fingers into the ointment jar, and dipped his slick fingers in slowly past the tight rim of Ettian's tender hole. He returned there that evening, and dipped his fingers into the ointment jar, and pulled Ettian up onto his knees to spread his arse a little wider. It would have been quite difficult indeed for him to miss Ettian's erection hanging heavy, but if he saw it he ignored it. Ettian didn't say a word. 

"You know, you'll have to speak sooner or later," Istvan said, in the afternoon on the fourth day, or maybe it was the fifth. "I remember when you liked to talk. It wasn't _that_ long ago. Don't tell me you forgot." 

"That was when I wasn't your prize," Ettian replied, his voice muffled by the pillow he was currently contemplating smothering himself with, if only because conversing with the warlord who'd dragged him off his throne while said warlord's thick fingers were knuckle-deep inside him seemed...crass, to say the least. 

Istvan huffed out a breath that ruffled Ettian's long hair and tickled at his back. "I know you didn't expect to lose," he said, "but are you really going to sulk because you did?"

Ettian turned a little, pushing up onto his forearms to frown back over his shoulder. "Is this a game to you?" he asked.

Istvan cocked his head. "Isn't it to you?" he replied. Then he crooked his fingers inside him, deliberately, and nudged a spot inside Ettian that made him tense and shiver and groan out loud in immediate, surprised arousal. He dropped his face back into the pillow and he didn't reply. As Istvan rubbed that place in him in slow, firm circles, as he tensed and trembled with the unexpected, shameful pleasure of it, he really didn't trust himself to speak. Besides, he knew they both already knew his answer to that question. 

After the sixth day, Istvan put away the ointment and brought a bottle of oil to bed instead. The ointment was no longer needed, not that Ettian was fully convinced it ever had been, but the oil definitely wasn't required - there was no medical reason that Istvan slicked him three times daily, his thick fingers circling between his cheeks before they pushed inside him. Even once Istvan had him dress in his usual white robe and leave the room with him to have him sit there on a stool next to the throne he'd used to sit in as he held council with his commanders, they returned to the room so he could oil him. Ettian came to understand that he was being trained, not just to understand that Kault had conquered Kyr, but for Istvan's cock. 

On the twelfth night, Istvan had him kneel as he teased him with his slick fingers, then he felt the thick tip of his cock pressed there instead. Istvan's big hands held Ettian's waist as he slowly eased his way inside him, and Ettian knew he'd been right - it didn't hurt except pleasantly, the way he stretched tight around his long, thick shaft making him shiver right down the length of his spine until Istvan was inside him to the hilt. When Istvan moved in him, slowly, he gasped against the pillow. When Istvan's fingers closed around his cock, it was only moments till he came. It was only moments till Istvan came after him, clutching tight at his slim hips. It was then, with Istvan's huge cock softening inside him, both of them spent, that Ettian finally understood exactly what had happened. He didn't breathe a word. He needed verification, though he wasn't entirely sure how he could get it.

Each morning, Istvan took him to the throne room, or to the council chambers, or to meet Kyrran petitioners. Each day, Ettian sat at his side and listened, saying nothing, doing nothing, strangely not particularly upset that he wasn't the one hearing petitions. He didn't have to be fair or even-handed or do anything the priests had always told him to - all he had to do was listen, like when his uncle had been living, and like at the negotiations years before, and offer the occasional opinion when asked. He didn't have to be fair, and Istvan certainly wasn't benevolent. He did things for his own reasons, which was useful to know, but that was corroboration rather than strict verification. 

Four days later, Istvan had him leave his robe on the bed and sit beside him naked in the throne room; he did so, of course, though he stared at the ground, hot-cheeked, as the good Kyrran men tried not to stare at him. Three days after that, Istvan had him sit naked beside him in the council chambers; he did so, of course, though he started at the old wooden table, embarrassed, as the Kaultani commanders definitely didn't try not to stare at him. Nine days after that, he pushed down his trousers as he met the envoys who'd just arrived in Kyr from the kingdom of Astalla and the republic of Marcelen, and had Ettian put his mouth on him. The ambassadors definitely tried not to stare. Ettian wrapped one hand around Istvan's cock and licked him tentatively with the tip of his tongue. The only thing he hated about it was that he didn't seem to care who saw.

Months passed. There were times that Istvan took his meetings naked, standing, one foot up on his chair as Ettian sucked his cock. There were times he took meetings slumped down just far enough in the old Kyrran throne that Ettian could straddle him, Istvan's chest almost to Ettian's back, and ride his cock till he came in him - he said the distraction paradoxically made it easier for him to concentrate. Sometimes he rucked up Ettian's robe and stroked him underneath the council table. These days, when people he sees don't meet his gaze, he can't be sure if that's from deference or from disgust.

And then once, memorably, a month or two into the second year of Kaultani rule, Istvan stood, and ushered Ettian onto the throne. He went down on his own knees there in front of him and sucked him, only pulling back just long enough to dismiss everyone else who was in the room. Then Istvan lifted him, and he tipped him backwards onto the nearby table. He had him there, slowly, face to face, his hips rolling to push inside him, with Ettian's legs wrapped around his waist. Ettian untied Istvan's long hair and unbraided it, so it hung in loose gold waves down past his waist and hung forward as he fucked him. He ran his fingers into it, both hands closing tight on handfuls of it, up close by his scalp. When Ettian pulled him down by it, Istvan let him. When Ettian kissed him, pressed his mouth to his and _kissed him_ , Istvan let him do that, too.

Ettian had almost been convinced he'd been wrong and that the sex really was just symbolic - like Kault was fucking Kyr - but when Istvan sucked him, held his thighs in his hands and teased him with his tongue till he came in his mouth, when he looked into his eyes as he had him there, when they kissed and Istvan came in him in bursts that made him gasp and lose his strength till he almost fell, it was clear as the moon to Ettian that fucking him had never been political. 

Months passed. When a Kyrran noble spat at Ettian's feet, Istvan calmly took him by the throat and squeezed until there was no point squeezing any longer. Years passed. When a priest of the moon called Ettian _unclean_ , Istvan calmly snapped his neck with his big hands. When a Kaultani soldier grabbed Ettian by the wrist and told him _you're the chief's whore, Kyrran, so why not be mine, too?_ Istvan calmly put a blade between his ribs. He's never let anyone else lay a hand on him. Ettian understands that the councillors were a necessary evil, but there will be no one else. 

Five weeks ago, though their two peoples would still argue over just how many days that consists of, they left the palace just for a few hours. Ettian has never left Kyr in his life and had only even left the palace once, that day when Istvan had come calling seven years before, because the strict rules of the Kyrran religion say the sovereign's place is there and only there. But religion in Kyr hasn't been the same since the Kaultani armies arrived, and Istvan himself has never showed any particular reverence for the Kyrran god or the rituals surrounding him. So, he took him from the palace. 

Istvan pulled him up onto his horse and took him through the city's winding streets down to the forest gates that Ettian had only ever seen on maps and out from it, across the snowy fields, following the river to the woods. They dismounted and walked there for a while, in the pale sunlight through the trees, listening to the river's rushing water. Ettian understood; the palace could seem oppressive, with its thick stone walls that admitted no trace of sunlight. He was used to it himself, because he'd never known anything else except that, but he knew how difficult others seemed to find it. Telling the days by the hourglasses the servants turned at the sound of the bell was not a life for everyone, perhaps especially not for a warlord from the sunny south.

Istvan shivered underneath his great bearskin cloak, so Ettian offered him his to wear, too. Istvan frowned at him but then went down on one knee on the forest floor, swept off his cloak and let Ettian wrap his own white wool one around his shoulders. He swept Istvan's braid aside as he did so, warm fingers brushing his cold neck while he fastened it into place. Once he'd risen again and the furs were back in place on top, Istvan pulled the wool tighter around himself underneath it. It didn't quite fit properly, unsurprisingly, but the lingering heat in it from Ettian's body seemed to make up for that. 

"Aren't you cold?" Istvan asked. 

"Never," he replied. He took hold of his robe and pulled it off over his head as if to prove the point, baring himself from the crown of his crownless head down to the top of his knee-high leather boots. Istvan shivered as he looked at him, but Ettian wasn't cold. "Let me warm you up," he said. 

He dragged Istvan down to the ground in the clearing there under the big, old tree. He pushed him down onto his back and he straddled his thighs and Istvan let him, shivering again when Ettian unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers down over his hips. He sucked him briefly, just until his big cock was nice and hard and wet, and then he knelt there naked, one knee to each side of Istvan's hips. There was just enough of that morning's oil left at the rim of his hole and past it, inside him, that it wasn't even difficult when he took Istvan's cock in his hand and guided it between his cheeks as he settled back. He just felt the blunt tip opening him slowly, bit by bit, till his full length was in him. 

Istvan gripped his hips with his leather-gloved hands. He braced his heels against the ground and he flexed up, pushing himself deeper, and Ettian spread his hands over Istvan's clothed chest as he began to rock his hips and ride him slowly, grinding down against him. The effect might have been more impressive if he hadn't been so hard himself, of course, but Istvan seemed to appreciate it all the more because he was - he wrapped one gloved hand around him and Ettian gasped at the feel of the cool, supple leather against his skin. He didn't stop till they were both spent.

The sun was setting as they turned back. By the time they arrived, the sky was dark and the moon was high and Ettian could feel its light on his skin, warm as the sun could ever be. The stories in the library said the old kings and queens tore down cities with their bare hands in the light of the full moon, said that light granted them great power, said they wielded blades shaped like the moon's sharp crescent, until the high priests agreed that they should exercise control. They told the people that their kings must be pure and chaste and perfect as the moon or else they couldn't rule, and so they were. So Ettian was, until Istvan had taken that chastity. 

Ettian had never seen the moon before that night. As they returned to the windowless palace, he couldn't help but wonder how different things might have been if he'd just broken with tradition when his uncle died and ridden south to meet the Kaultani forces. Chances were, he'd now never know the kind of power that the old kings had, but that didn't mean he was powerless. 

But he knew, as they rode, that it had taken the fall of Kyr to make him understand. And he had a lot of full moons to make up for.

\---

Last night, an assassin came to the king's chambers. He didn't leave again. 

"What do you want?" Ettian asked, that day in the throne room seven years ago, when Kault had come to Kyr. 

What he'd expected, face to face with the Giant of Kault, bloody warhammer in hand, was _unconditional surrender_ or _whatever I fucking please, whenever it pleases me_. But what he said was, "You'll pay your taxes like all the rest. You'll send men to the army. Kyr does what I say and no one else dies. At least not needlessly." 

"That's it?"

"That's it." 

"You don't want to kill me, raze the palace and set fire to the city?"

"Not particularly. It's a nice city. Nicer than Kault, even if it's fucking cold. I think I'll stay." He gestured at him with one bloody hand. "You can't be king, of course. Too likely your people would rebel. But I'm not going to kill you, Kyrran." 

"That's...generous." 

"Isn't it."

Ettian narrowed his eyes. "So what do you _want_?" he asked. 

Istvan dropped into a crouch just for a moment, to set the huge warhammer down on the throne room's marble floor. He looked at him from down there and, just for a moment, Ettian was reminded of another time entirely. It had been thirteen long years since anyone had looked him in the eye. The only man who ever had was Istvan of Kault and, by all that he held sacred, it thrilled him. 

"There's a crowd outside," Istvan said, still crouching there. "I'm going to fuck you in front of it. Then your councillors are going to fuck you. Then as long as you do as I say, I won't burn another city." 

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you come here?" 

Istvan stood. He pulled himself up tall, taller than any other man that Ettian had ever seen, and settled his hands on Ettian's shoulders. Dried blood flaked off rust-red against his clean white robe and by all that was holy, by the god in the moon, the chill of his hands as his thumbs brushed his throat was all he'd wanted since the day Istvan had left. 

"Why this?" Ettian asked. 

"Why not?" Istvan replied. 

But it wasn't until last night, when the assassin was dead, that he really answered truthfully. 

Last night, an assassin came to the king's chambers. Ettian took the knife from the drawer by the bed, which Istvan still hadn't had removed in the seven years he'd been there, and he put it into the assassin's neck. It was easier than he'd expected, much easier, but the death itself took longer. Istvan didn't wake before he'd actually died, sound sleeper that he is, but when he had, he left the bed and took the knife and wiped it clean on the dead man's shirt. Then he passed it back to Ettian. 

"Why did you come here?" Ettian asked, impulsively, sitting there at the side of the bed with the knife in his hands, because they both knew as long as Istvan was there, there were men who'd try to kill him. And they both knew, even more than that, that he fucking hated Kyr; he wanted the long Kaultani days and the heat of the sun on his skin, with a hammer in his hands and not a firelit throne to sit on. 

Istvan looked at him. The light of the lamp flickered across his face, in his grey eyes, almost like the sun he missed. 

"Because you were the only thing anyone ever said I couldn't have," he replied. Then he blew out the light. 

Seven years have passed since Kault conquered Kyr, and Ettian has kept his word. He expected Istvan to keep him caged, but he hasn't - he told him _don't leave the palace without me_ and so he hasn't because he knows if he did, the deal would be void and Istvan would burn Kyr to the ground. He wears his long hair in a braid that matches Istvan's because he told him to do that, too, and he still wears his white king's robe because that was yet another order. He's naked underneath it, though, because that's something Istvan wants. He still shaves his face and his chest and his legs and his balls because Istvan enjoys the way his smooth skin feels when he moves his rough hands over it. Almost everything he does is because he was told to. Almost. 

He doesn't wear chains. He's a prisoner but not a captive, or maybe it's the other way around, though he supposes the distinction's small. He sits at Istvan's elbow as he gives orders to his new council, or to his men. He sits at Istvan's elbow when he feasts his commanders. And when he goes to bed, Ettian goes with him. He strips. He stretches out naked, and Istvan joins him. When they wake up in the morning, they wake up together. 

Last night, an assassin came to the king's chambers. This morning, Istvan tattoos a thin black line over the inside of Ettian's wrist. No one else will see it, but they both know what it means. 

"Did you kill your father?" Ettian asks, as they sit there in the library, which seems fitting given it's the place it all began. He reaches out as the inky needle stings his skin; he rubs the matching lines at Istvan's wrists. "I assume one of these is for him."

"Yes," Istvan replies. "I thought that was common knowledge." He pauses. The needle hovers, the line complete but he doesn't pull back. He cocks his head. "Did you kill your uncle?"

Ettian frowns. "Yes," he says, admits, the admission of it sickly thrilling. "That's _not_ common knowledge." But he doesn't ask him how he knows, because he understands; they're alike in so many ways that once upon a time, right here, he said he thought it was a shame they weren't their countries' rulers. Now he understands: he's the one who did this, _all_ of this. He practically dared him.

 _"I'll come back one day,"_ Istvan said, the day he left. _"And I'll bring an army with me."_

Ettian remembers smiling. _"I believe you will,"_ he replied, and he did believe. He'd just assumed that it would be his father's army, but he'd been very, very wrong. 

Istvan takes Ettian's other wrist in his hand and he starts a second line - soon there'll be one for last night and then one for that other death, nearly twenty years ago. There are lines on Istvan's skin that number hundreds, and his armies wear whole thousands more. Ettian knows now that Istvan of Kault has conquered nations just to have him. Those lines belong to both of them. He'd like to make a few more. 

"I want to go to Marcelen," he says. 

"You know they want us dead there," Istvan replies. "We'd need to take an army."

Ettian smiles. "I know," he says. "I imagine that's why I want to go." 

Istvan laughs out loud, low and rough and raucous, pleased, just like he did that day right there when they were young. Then he kisses him, and nods, and kisses him again, and Ettian knows he will never deny him anything he asks, because he never has. 

Istvan of Kault is not a nice man, or a good man, or a particularly benevolent ruler. He brings politics at the point of a sword, and authority in a hammer blow. But Ettian's not nice, either; what he is is devout. The mistake people make is in thinking the god in the moon is pure or good or peaceful; what he is is savage. Ettian's god doesn't care about chastity, and his god isn't pure. All he cares about is snuffing out the sun, and Ettian knows precisely how that feels.

Perhaps he'll never know the power of his god that the old kings had in them, like Istvan is just a shadow of the giants. Perhaps he'll never wield a crescent sword, but by his god he'll see Istvan wield a hammer. Perhaps the moon will never quite snuff out of the sun, but perhaps it doesn't have to after all; all it has to do is turn the blazing sun against the stars instead, then watch them fall. They'll make a start with Marcelen. 

Ettian knows he can never be a king again, but that doesn't mean he can't rule like one. 

And then, one day, perhaps the tables will turn. The Giant of Kault almost seems small when he's on his knees.


End file.
